


Wicked Game

by paperstorm



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Blow Jobs, Edwardian Period, First Time, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23434960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: Across the table, Bucky smiles at him. There’s sunshine in it, and a tinge of something darker, but no, Steve must be imagining that. Wishing it were there. He’ll have ample material, for later when he’s alone in his bed and can wrap fingers around himself with images of mischievous blue eyes swimming in his mind when he closes his own. But that’s it. That’s all this will be, he’s sure of it. At least, he’s sure of it until he reaches for another sandwich off the tray, and Bucky reaches for the same one at the same time, and their fingertips brush.Steve’s heart leaps, Bucky’s cheeks go red, and that’s … something. Steve’s tongue feels too big again. He was wrong. It’s certainly something.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 51
Kudos: 287





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadefilter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadefilter/gifts).



> This was done for [fadefilter](https://fadefilter.tumblr.com/), who wanted me to write a little something to go along with [this utterly gorgeous art](https://fadefilter.tumblr.com/post/190543005298/1900s-stevebucky-au-where-all-they-do-is-attend), that I loved so damn much. Thank you so much honey! (also go check them out please, their other art is STUNNING!)

They’re all the same.  
  
Steve is invited, at least once a month, around to his Great Aunt Hilda’s for tea. He has been since he was 12 years old. And it’s always painfully, paralysis-inducingly the same. The same little old ladies in their frilly hats and taffeta, the same idle gossip about their friends and neighbors, the same asinine questions about when he’ll find a pretty bride and settle down. He wouldn’t mind the rest of it quite so much if it wasn’t for that last bit. The truth isn’t something he’s ever planning on telling the likes of them, and he’s never managed to come up with a lie they find satisfactory. _But you’re so handsome_ , one of them will always simper, as if that alone should solve everything with the snap of his fingers. It’s becoming more insufferable by the week, and he’s dreading the entire affair as he rides over in one of his Father’s carriages.  
  
“Steven, oh good, you’re early,” Hilda exclaims happily, when he’s shown into the sunroom by her sullen maid. The room is bright and cheery, with wide windows letting in the soft spring sunshine, filtering nicely over the clean white and floral patterns of the furniture, pinks and reds stitched in roses across the backs of the garden chairs.  
  
“How are you?” he asks politely, leaning over to kiss her cheek.  
  
She squeezes surprisingly strong fingers around his forearm, wrinkling the tan linen fabric of his suit. “I have a surprise for you,” she tells him.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Sit!”  
  
He obeys the command, settling across from her and graciously accepting the steaming cup she passes him.  
  
“Try these,” Hilda says, instead of continuing her previous train of thought. She lifts a delicate serving tray arranged with colorful pastries. “A new recipe, I believe. They’re quite nice.”  
  
Steve takes a square of sugar-dusted pastry with red jelly in a circle in the middle. He sets it onto the side plate near him and separates a small section of it with an ornate silver fork. It is tasty, when he brings it to his lips. Sweet and tart and light. “Delicious. Is this the surprise?”  
  
“No, silly boy.”  
  
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to remain here on the edge of my seat?” He tries, and maybe fails, to curtail the sarcastic tone that longs to drip from his words. He’s never liked the concept of surprises. He doesn’t like to be caught off guard, to be unable to curate his feelings and temper his outward reaction accordingly. It’s a side-effect from living for so long with a secret.  
  
“You’ll find out soon enough.”  
  
A footman enters the room, with a silver tray in his white-gloved hands. There are small sandwiches, cut on diagonal lines, piled neatly on it in concentric circles.  
  
“Who else have you invited this afternoon?” Steve asks.  
  
His Aunt’s expression just sparkles even more.  
  
Steve’s eyes widen and his stomach flips. “No. Aunt Hilda, that’s part of the surprise?”  
  
“It might be,” she answers, sniffing primly.  
  
“Don’t do this to me,” he groans, and she reaches across the table and lightly smacks his wrist.  
  
“Don’t be rude! Besides, I do promise you’ll like this surprise.”  
  
“If you’ve invited some poor girl, one of your friends’ granddaughters, to ambush me …”  
  
“I know you would be kind and polite.” She takes a generous sip from her cup, eyeing him strangely. As if she’s sizing him up, trying to read something in his facial expressions.  
  
Steve sighs. “Of course I would. But I’m not going to marry her, either.”  
  
“And why not?”  
  
Steve doesn’t answer, and unnervingly, that seems to be the answer she was searching for.  
  
“You will be pleased by this surprise. Trust me.”  
  
“I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?”  
  
His Aunt shakes her head, and grey pinned curls bounce along the sides of her face. “Certainly not.”  
  
He lets the subject fall away, as it’s clear she isn’t going to provide any further details regardless of how firmly he pushes her. They make inconsequential small-talk for a while longer, before her haughty butler enters the room with his nose up in the air and pompously announces the arrival of their guests.  
  
“Mrs. Barnes and Master James, My Lady.”  
  
“Oh, good,” Hilda claps happily, rising up out of her chair to greet them.  
  
Steve stands too, because it’s customary and he’d get a folded wooden fan to the back of his head if he didn’t.  
  
A woman who looks very much like his Aunt bustles into the room, her long dandelion-colored skirt swishing around her feet and pinned grey hair surrounding her face.  
  
“My dear,” she says in a creaky voice, embracing Steve’s Aunt with clasped hands and kisses on both cheeks.  
  
Out from behind her, entirely contrary to what Steve had been expecting when she said there would be a surprise guest, steps a boy. He’s about Steve’s age, perhaps a little younger, with warm chestnut hair that’s pushed back off his forehead and tawny skin. He’s dressed smartly in a waistcoat and a silky pale green shirt. Steve blinks. The boy looks at him, blue eyes brighter than the loveliest summer sky meeting his, and a warm wave washes over Steve, butterflies erupting in his stomach as if he missed a step in the darkness and his foot fell unexpectedly; that brief moment of feeling as if you’re about to tumble into an abyss before your heel hits the next step and the world is right again.  
  
“This is my grandson, James,” Mrs. Barnes introduces.  
  
“How much you look like your dear mother,” Aunt Hilda gushes, taking James’ hands in hers and kissing his cheeks as well.  
  
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says courteously. His voice is like velvet, like smooth cream poured over a decadent sponge cake.  
  
“We have met, but many years ago, you wouldn’t remember. You were just a boy, and a rambunctious one, at that, if I remember correctly.”  
  
“I shall strive to be better company, this time,” James says. His eyes twinkle, and Steve doesn’t think his Aunt sees the mischievous glint in them, but he certainly does. He couldn’t miss it if he were miles away.  
  
He might be the most gorgeous thing Steve has ever seen.  
  
“My Great Nephew, Steven,” Hilda says, holding her hand out and raising her eyebrows at him.  
  
Steve belatedly realizes he’s just been standing there next to his chair like a complete idiot, staring, probably with his mouth half-open. He curses himself internally and gives himself an imperceptible shake before he walks over, managing by the grace of God to not trip over his own feet and end up tumbling right into the stranger’s arms.  
  
He takes the gloved hand Mrs. Barnes holds out, lowering his face to kiss the back of it while she swoons about flattery, and wonders aloud how many years it’s been since a handsome man kissed her hand. Then he turns to the boy, and … oh. His eyes are even bluer up close. There are freckles on his nose, and crinkles by his eyes as his plush lips curve into a small smile. Steve’s tongue seems to swell in his mouth, suddenly too big to swallow around. He hasn’t been this besotted in years, and he’d like very much to slap himself in the face. His Aunt’s idea of a nice surprise was not for Steve to behave the way he’s behaving. She’d invited this boy along so Steve would have someone his own age to talk to for once, not so Steve could embarrass his entire lineage by drooling all over his shoes in the presence of a handsome face.  
  
“Mr. Barnes,” he forces out formally, reaching for the boy’s outstretched hand to shake it.  
  
“Steven.” His smile widens, and his hand is so warm in Steve’s. A delightful press of soft skin has Steve’s heart skipping beats in his chest.  
  
Steve loses the air from his lungs. Between them, a spark seems to crackle. Heat, or the promise of something, or maybe Steve is imagining it all. Yes, he is very likely imagining it all. Maybe it’s been too long since he’s been this close to someone so beautiful. There is a footman, at his parents’ estate, who sometimes Steve pulls into the library when no one important is home. There is a nook off the main wing, with no windows and ample opportunity to hear anyone else approaching, and Steve presses the man into stacks of old books and kisses him and touches him and sinks to his knees in front of him. Nothing feels quite like it, and they always emerge with rumbled clothes and mussed up hair but smiling, and already counting the days until the opportunity to do it again presents itself. Maybe it’s just been too long, this time, and Steve’s dying for it.  
  
“Call me Bucky,” the velvet voice tells him.  
  
“For heaven’s sake, James,” his Grandmother sighs, exasperated. She takes a seat at the table, and Hilda sits as well and begins pouring tea. To Hilda, Mrs. Barnes explains, “I told his mother when he was three weeks old not to call him that. I told her cutesy nicknames never remain isolated to childhood, that it would stick and follow him for the rest of his life. She didn’t listen.”  
  
Bucky – Steve immediately decides to call him Bucky, regardless of his Grandmother’s opinion, because Bucky asked him to – drops his gaze and his jaw clenches. Steve can see the muscles working, and his heart hurts. Less than five minutes into knowing this person and Steve already aches to protect him, to wrap him up and shield him from the whole world.  
  
“I like it. It suits you,” he says, quiet enough for only the other boy to hear.  
  
Bucky looks up through his fawn-colored eyelashes, blinking at Steve hopefully. “Yeah?”  
  
Steve nods. “Call me Steve. Although maybe not in front of my Aunt.”  
  
Accidently, his words imply they might see each other again outside of the company of Steve’s Aunt, and Steve cringes and wants to take it back, but Bucky just keeps on smiling at him. Soft and sweet as a lilac-scented spring breeze. It might be the loveliest smile Steve has ever seen.  
  
“Come sit, boys!” Hilda says, snapping Steve out of the moment, making him realize he’s still holding Bucky’s hand.  
  
“Sorry,” he mutters, cheeks flushing in embarrassment, as he loosens his grips.  
  
“It’s alright,” Bucky tells him. His cheeks are pink, too. Steve wants to find out how easy it would be to make him really blush. If it would travel down his neck, across his chest. If his skin would be warm if Steve slid his lips over it.  
  
They sit, and as Steve is very used to and was certainly expecting on his way over today, the talk is small, the gossip is idle, the topics are dull. It’s always that way. Usually, though, his hands do not remain firmly clenched in his lap because he doesn’t trust himself not to flail as he’s speaking and knock something over. Usually, he speaks in sentences longer than two or three words; not worried about becoming tongue-tied as he is now. Usually, he isn’t sweating underneath his linen suit.  
  
Bucky is effortlessly charming, easy smiles and endearing laughter, as he’s asked questions by Steve’s Aunt. Steve does fumble over an answer, to a question about the village cricket team Mrs. Barnes asks him, because Bucky is watching him intently as he stutters through it. Bucky’s gaze is steady, intense, and Steve can’t remember how to act in public because of it.  
  
He’s pretty, Steve decides as their elderly relatives discuss a new variety of rose Mrs. Adler has been lucky enough to acquire for her garden. Not handsome, as he’d thought before. Not yet. In a decade, likely, he’ll be devastating. Once the baby fat has melted from his cheeks and the shadow of stubble on his sharp jawline begins to remain even when he’s just been shaved. For now, he’s far too lovely for a word that conjures images of salt-and-pepper hair and strong noses and broad shoulders. Soft, and crimson-lipped, and sweet. Steve barely knows him, and knows he’s sweet. He just knows it.  
  
Across the table, Bucky smiles at him. There’s sunshine in it, and a tinge of something darker, but no, Steve must be imagining that. Wishing it were there. He’ll have ample material, for later when he’s alone in his bed and can wrap fingers around himself with images of mischievous blue eyes swimming in his mind when he closes his own. But that’s it. That’s all this will be, he’s sure of it. At least, he’s sure of it until he reaches for another sandwich off the tray, and Bucky reaches for the same one at the same time, and their fingertips brush.  
  
Steve’s heart leaps, Bucky’s cheeks go red, and that’s … something. Steve’s tongue feels too big again. He was wrong. It’s certainly something.  
  
“Take it,” Bucky says, withdrawing his hand. His fingers are nicely shaped. Steve would like to see how they’d look elsewhere.  
  
“You’re our guest,” Steve tells him. He licks his bottom lip, and watches as Bucky’s eyes track the movement of his tongue. “I insist.”  
  
Bucky’s bottom lip, as if subconsciously mirroring Steve, gets sucked into his mouth, white teeth pressing into the meat of it. Steve supresses a shiver. God help him, he wants to suck on that lip, wants to kiss Bucky until he’s breathless, wants to press into him and find out if he’d moan just as nicely as Steve’s imagining.  
  
“Thank you,” Bucky says softly. Desire simmers in the endless blue of his eyes, and he doesn’t break their heated gaze as he takes the sandwich delicately with his fingers and bites into it, making a show of licking mustard off his lips.  
  
Steve clenches his jaw and swallows thickly, and his shoulders ache from holding them so tightly. When Bucky glances back up, he catches Steve watching him, and sparks quietly ignite. It’s an utterly dangerous game to be playing, and Steve loves it.  
  
“Would you like to show James our garden?” Aunt Hilda asks.  
  
It takes Steve a minute to hear her, and feels herculean to tear his gaze away from Bucky’s, who is still smirking at him like he couldn’t care less if his Grandmother looked over and picked up on what’s been bubbling up between them.  
  
“What?” Steve asks, turning to a disapproving frown from his Aunt. He hurries to right it. “Oh, I mean, I … forgive me. What I meant was, could you repeat that, please?”  
  
“The garden,” she says, again. “Perhaps you’d like to show James. I’m sure it would be more interesting than sitting here listening to two old ladies chitchat the afternoon away.”  
  
“That sounds nice,” Bucky says. Steve looks back at him, and there’s so much heat in his gaze that Steve has to take a moment to collect himself. Perhaps this boy isn’t as innocent as Steve assumed.  
  
Steve nods numbly. They both rise and excuse themselves, and Steve considers it one of the more impressive feats of his life that he manages to resist shoving Bucky into a wall right there in the hallway, the moment they’re alone.  
  
“Are you … interested in gardening?” he asks, feeling stupid. He’s never been good at this part. He’s never really had to be. He can fake it well enough, when female suitors are floated in front of him and he’s forced to keep up appearances, but it’s easier to play pretend when he doesn’t care about the outcome.  
  
“Not particularly,” Bucky says, with a musical laugh. “You?”  
  
Steve shakes his head.  
  
“Just had enough tea and gossip for one afternoon?”  
  
Steve glances at him sideways, and Bucky’s eyes are shining again. Steve laughs unsteadily. “I suppose so.”  
  
“You’re cute,” Bucky says, and Steve’s stomach does a series of summersaults.  
  
“You’re … bold,” he answers honestly, holding the door open for the slightly shorter boy.  
  
Stepping out into the spring air, Bucky looks over his shoulder at Steve with a raised eyebrow, and then Steve’s stomach churns in a different way.  
  
“Oh, Lord, tell me I didn’t … misinterpret …”  
  
“The way I was looking at you like I wanted to eat you alive?” Bucky finishes, mirth dancing in his expressive eyes. “No, you didn’t misinterpret.”  
  
It takes closing his eyes briefly and a deep breath before Steve can think how to respond, his entire body lit up with desire so quickly it makes his head spin, and by the time he opens his eyes again, Bucky has stepped closer, into Steve’s space. He blinks up at him, looking at him through those eyelashes again, cheeks tinged pink and lips begging to be kissed. Bucky reaches out, places his hands on Steve’s chest, sliding them slowly up his front. With shaking hands and wobbly knees, Steve takes Bucky’s thin waist in his hands, fingers curling over his waistcoat.  
  
“James,” Steve breathes. “Bucky.”  
  
Bucky tilts his chin up, runs the cold tip of his nose along Steve’s cheek, hovering so damn close to a kiss but infuriatingly not closing that final inch, and whispers, “tell me there’s some place out here we can get a little more privacy.”  
  
“Shit,” Steve swears, and Bucky gasps softly, taken aback by the curse. Steve wants to devour him. “The stables,” he says, unceremoniously grabbing Bucky’s hand and tugging him off in their direction.  
  
Bucky laughs as he follows along behind. If there are servants watching from the windows, Steve decides recklessly that he doesn’t care.  
  
He presses Bucky up against the wooden wall of an empty stall the second they’re alone among the horses. Loose straw surrounds their feet, and there’s dried mud on the wall behind them, and Steve can barely think of a less romantic place for a rendezvous such as this but somehow that only amplifies the excitement of it.  
  
Bucky’s cheeks are flushed and yes, Steve can see now that he’s close enough to inspect it properly, the blush does go all the way down his neck and disappears beneath his high collar. Steve wants to rip it open and chase the pink all the way down with his tongue. Instead he just stares, and gently brushes the backs of his knuckles alone Bucky’s sharp jawline, smiling to himself when Bucky’s face turns into his hand.  
  
“You’re gorgeous,” Steve tells him softly, feeling somewhere trapped between the exhilaration of a new experience and the unexpected comfort of an old one, as if he’s known this boy all his life instead of for an hour.  
  
“So are you.” Bucky blinks up at him, eyes gone sparkly. “Nearly choked on my own tongue when I walked into that room and saw you.”  
  
“Yeah?” Steve smiles again. He feels warm inside at the thought.  
  
Bucky nods. His hands find Steve’s chest again, fingers digging lightly into the muscles, before he slides them up over Steve’s shoulders and down his arms to squeeze his biceps instead, like he needs them to steady himself. “So big,” he whispers reverently.  
  
“Have you … with a man? Before?” Steve asks, because he needs to check. As much as it seems unlikely Bucky is completely inexperienced given how he was behaving before, and as much as Steve wants to strip this person naked and ravish him where he stands, he still needs to know.  
  
Bucky nods again, biting at his bottom lip like he had in the parlor. The sight of it is intoxicating. “Only a few times, though. And nobody like you.”  
  
Steve isn’t sure he knows exactly what Bucky means by that, but decides it’s not important enough to discuss right at this moment. Maybe next time. Then he chides himself internally for thinking there might be a next time. Then his stomach flips over again, because oh God, what if there could be a next time?  
  
“Could I kiss you?” Steve asks, hand still cupping Bucky’s cheek; cradling it, really, because through the ravenous want, Steve feels this boy is precious and deserves to be handled with care.  
  
“Please,” Bucky whispers, and yes, Steve wants to hear him beg maybe more than anything he’s wanted in his life.  
  
He won’t make him, though. Not just now. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between them and pressing his lips softly into that plush, crimson mouth. It’s as warm and as soft as he’d imagined, and Bucky immediately opens up for him, lets Steve slide his tongue in to taste. He gets lost in a kiss that lasts forever and a day, Bucky’s hands still gripping his biceps, lips so sweet against his.  
  
“The way you looked at me,” Bucky rasps, when they break apart to gasp for air. Steve can’t help the quiet moan that bubbles up in his throat, hearing Bucky’s smooth voice turned rough with lust.  
  
“So pretty,” Steve tells him, attaching his mouth to a spot on Bucky’s neck, sucking at his skin, not hard enough to bruise but close to it. “Couldn’t help myself.”  
  
“Right in front of my Grandmother, too.” Bucky sounds thrilled by it, like he’d been entertaining a carousel of the same filthy thoughts at that table as Steve had. The danger of getting caught, that lingers even now, heightens the arousal, makes it darker and more urgent and floods Steve’s veins. He stiffens further in his slacks.  
  
“And my Great Aunt.” He relinquishes Bucky’s neck in favor of finding his lips again in a burning kiss, mouths crashing together just a hair shy of painful. The way his teeth dig into the insides of his own mouth will leave tiny marks, maybe, little sore spots he can press on with his tongue later and remember what this felt like. “You know she invited you as a surprise for me? I’m usually the youngest person in the room by 50 years when I get invited ‘round for tea. She wanted me to have someone my own age to talk to. Thought you’d be a _nice surprise_.”  
  
Bucky hums, sending vibrations all down Steve’s chest as he clutches at Steve’s back to pull him even closer. His hips press forward, heat and hardness rubbing up against Steve. “And? Was I a nice surprise?”  
  
The tease makes him feel feral, wild, completely out of control. “The nicest fucking surprise I’ve ever had.”  
  
Bucky gasps against his lips. “The mouth on you.”  
  
“Not as pretty as yours.” To illustrate his point, Steve brings his hand around and cups Bucky’s smooth cheek in his palm, pressing his thumb against Bucky’s swollen lower lip.  
  
Bucky looks at him with hooded eyes and parts them, allowing Steve to slide his thumb into Bucky’s mouth and then immediately closing his lips around it and sucking. The sight of it shoots right to Steve’s cock.  
  
“You like having something to suck on, sweet thing?” he asks, and Bucky nods, his tongue laving in a warm circle around Steve’s thumb. He pulls it out, and Bucky whimpers in protest at the loss, but then Steve replaces it with his middle and forefinger and Bucky’s eyes flutter closed.  
  
Steve wants him so much. Aches for him, longs to keep him close forever. It’s more, than what he thought before. It’s not just been too long since the last time somebody touched him. It’s so much more than that.  
  
He regretfully removes his fingers for the second time, hating the distressed look on Bucky’s face that replaces the near meditative one, but he kisses him again to quiet it. Long, lustrous sweeps of their lips, and Steve’s head is swimming like he’s had a few too many glasses of wine. Bucky does that to him. Makes him feel drunk, crazy, reckless.  
  
“I’ll give you something better to suck on, if you want,” Steve murmurs to him, delighting in the soft moan that slips from Bucky’s lips. “Then I’ll do you.”  
  
“I haven’t …” Bucky gulps in a shaky breath. His eyes search Steve’s, questioning. “Only … hands.”  
  
Steve wasn’t expecting that, and it only makes this sweet boy all the more tantalizing. Steve wants to be the one, now, who shows him everything. Who introduces him to all the ways people can make each other feel things, even the things Steve hasn’t tried himself.  
  
“It’s up to you, I’ll take anything you want to give me. But it feels so good,” Steve promises him. He rocks his hips forward, a slow grind of their erections together through their pants, and smears damp kisses over the other side of Bucky’s neck. Right in his ear, he whispers, “I’ll make you feel so good,” and Bucky trembles.  
  
“Yeah. Yes, please, Steve.”  
  
Ignoring the order he’d proposed, instead Steve lowers himself slowly to his knees, looking up at Bucky as he does, thrilling in his darkened eyes and shiny lips and messed-up hair. He’s even more beautiful, like this, than he was before. Steve wants him this way forever.  
  
He presses his cheek into the bulge in Bucky’s slacks, nuzzling into the hardness, and Bucky gasps and a loud thunk from above tells Steve that Bucky’s head just fell back into the wood. He grins, pleased with himself, and keeps rubbing with his face until the material before him becomes wet from where Bucky’s leaking. Steve feels guilty about that for just a moment, before he remembers Bucky’s outer coat will be long enough to cover it if he fastens all the buttons. Bucky is already squirming, so Steve takes pity on him and undoes his pants with sure fingers, no longer overwhelmed by nerves as he was before. This, he knows he’s good at. And now that the anxiety of _maybe_ has filtered into _definitely yes_ , all he wants is to make this boy whimper a whole lot more. He’s addicted to it already.  
  
He takes Bucky out of his pants, taking just a moment to marvel at the reddened skin and messy tip, before he licks at it, gathering all that salt on his tongue.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky gasps, fingers grasping at handfuls of Steve’s hair and squeezing.  
  
Steve smirks. “Told you,” he says, before he takes the head into his mouth and sucks, hard enough that Bucky’s hips jerk forward and Steve has to grip them tight to hold them steady as he lowers his face and takes Bucky’s hot length into his mouth.  
  
It’s quick, and it’s heavenly, as Steve bobs his head and swallows around him and Bucky shakes and moans underneath him. It’s how Steve’s always had it. It’s always rushed, because there’s never time, because there’s always the threat of being found out. Surely that amplifies the excitement, but for the first time Steve finds himself wishing there _was_ time. For the first time he finds the fact that he needs to hurry regrettable instead of exhilarating. He’d like to lay this gorgeous body out on a bed, surround him with candles and roses and satin sheets, lick every inch of him until he’s forgotten everything he ever knew that isn’t Steve’s mouth on him.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky whispers, that lovely voice saying Steve’s name again, with a tremor to it that spreads like wildfire mixed with arousal along Steve’s goosebumped skin.  
  
Bucky’s chin falls back down toward his chest, and he gapes at Steve, and Steve remembers. Remembers what it felt like, the first time someone did this to him. Remembers thinking beforehand it couldn’t be _that_ much better than a fist wrapped around him, but then it was. Remembers being shaken, afterward, by how it felt, and then properly addicted to it faster than he could wrap the logical part of his mind around.  
  
Steve pulls off him, hunching down a little further to slide his mouth along the base of Bucky’s cock, lips and tongue working along the underside of it. He’s sweet and salty, and Steve’s throbbing in his own pants. Bucky shudders, as Steve takes his sac into his hand, squeezing gently as he kisses the leaking head of his erection. Steve wonders just how messy he could get him. Wonders if he could get Bucky off without even being touched, just by talking to him or touching him in other places; secret, shameful places Steve has only dreamt about in his darkest fantasies.  
  
“Oh,” Bucky breathes, beautifully, still holding onto Steve’s hair, watching him with wide-blown pupils, his lips parted and his mouth empty. Steve remembers what he said and reaches one hand up, giving Bucky his fingers back. Bucky takes them greedily into his mouth, eyes falling closed on a long moan, sucking on them like a pacifier as Steve hollows his cheeks on a particularly hard suck around the length of him. Bucky groans loudly, wantonly, around Steve’s fingers, and then finishes, unexpectedly, into Steve’s mouth.  
  
Steve’s practiced enough in the art of this to refrain from choking, swallowing around him, holding Bucky steady with his other hand still on his hip. He rests his forehead against Bucky’s heaving stomach once he stops coming, breathing heavily himself, so aroused his vision has gone dark around the edges. Bucky’s grabbing for him, urging him back up, so Steve rocks back onto the balls of his feet and stands on weakened legs. They feel like he’s run miles on them, even though he’s only been kneeling for a couple of minutes.  
  
The look Bucky gives him is so sweetly surprised that Steve has to kiss him again, wrapping his arms fully around Bucky’s waist and holding him close as he does. Bucky wasn’t expecting, maybe, to do what Steve just did, and his astonishment is unbearably adorable.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky sighs into his mouth, seeming unable to come up with any other words, but Steve understands. And he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit he loves this boy saying his name. He could probably hear it forever and never tire of it.  
  
“A bit overwhelming?”  
  
Bucky swallows audibly and nods.  
  
“Felt good, though, right?” Steve cups that same cheek, warm under his hand, and strokes his thumb along Bucky’s heated skin.  
  
“So good,” Bucky agrees, on a shaky, maybe slightly embarrassed laugh. “I want to learn how to do that.”  
  
“We …” Steve closes his eyes, and bumps his nose lightly against Bucky’s. He wants to, and he’d said as much earlier, but a small, highly annoying moment of clarity reminds him of the trouble they would be in if they did get caught, and thinks it better not to risk it. This time. “I’m not sure we have time. But I could … would you let me write to you? Maybe see you again?”  
  
“Yes.” Bucky nods quickly. “I want that, I … gosh, Steve. I want that very much.”  
  
Steve smiles into another kiss. “Good. Me too. Won’t be able to think of anything else, until the next time I can get my hands on you.”  
  
Bucky’s right hands slides down, fingertips playing over the waistband of Steve’s pants and then lower to cup him through them. Steve draws in a quick inhale, and his hips twitch forward, desperate for more contact.  
  
“I’ll be quick,” Bucky tells him, mischievous glint back in his eyes now that he’s recovered a little. “We can’t let you go back inside like this, can we?”  
  
“Certainly not.”  
  
Bucky smiles at him, as he unhooks the buttons and slides his hand into Steve’s pants. Warm fingers curl around him, and Steve sighs happily into another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me [on tumblr](http://paper-storm.tumblr.com/) [or twitter](https://twitter.com/turningthedials) if you want!


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